There are socks that never lose faith,
worn thin, threads unraveling like prayers.
A single touch to the painted locker,
as though it holds the whispered future.
The same song pulsing through earbuds,
its rhythm a heartbeat before the storm.
Water drunk in exact measured sips,
a chemistry of control in every swallow.
They tie their laces in sacred loops,
double knots like promises to themselves.
A step onto the court, left then right,
feet memorizing the choreography of belief.
It’s not magic, they’ll tell you;
it’s quiet insurance against chaos.
As if rituals could hold the world together,
could steady a hand or sharpen the aim.
In moments thick with the weight of chance,
their superstitions are the only things
that do not waver, do not blink back.
And who can blame them for clinging tight?